


Little Red Boat, or a look into Agent Illinois of Project Freelancer

by julietofmayfair



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Gen, I'm not in a fandom unless I write fanfic for characters with zero lines of dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-25 15:40:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20726627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/julietofmayfair/pseuds/julietofmayfair
Summary: Who was Agent Illinois, the man of the islands, rum, and tiny red sailboats? Let's take a look.





	Little Red Boat, or a look into Agent Illinois of Project Freelancer

The warmth of a midday sun, the faraway cry of a seagull, and the gentle lapping of waves against the shore.

Those were the things that defined Agent Illinois. It wasn't just the palm tree cutouts that hung inside his locker door, or the patched up flip-flops he always wore, defiant in the face of a galaxy that only had time for the cold. It wasn't even the hammock, although that, it was agreed, certainly helped.

The man was an ocean.

There's a saying among the Mother of Invention which goes like this: _"Ask 50 Freelancers a question and you'll get 51 answers"_. It is, although a bit on the rude side, mostly true. What's the proper way of infiltrating an enemy base, what's the superior fighting technique in zero-G conditions, who deserves the extra serving of ice cream on Friday nights. They can't help it, because they were taught to be like this. It is, as the names they now carry, ingrained into their very being. An insidious little leaderboard for anything and everything.

Well, almost everything. Ask any Freelancer who they'd rather spend their off-time with, and you'd reach an almost unanimous decision. For Agent Illinois, like the ebb and flow of the tides, had a magnetizing quality to him, a certain _je ne sais quoi_ that there, high up among the stars, seemed to his peers to be as necessary as air.

Take a look at him: military agent of Project Freelancer, demolitions expert, 16th on the allmighty ranking. 6 foot 1, 32 years old, and a bit on the chub side. These are all facts, bullet points on a file tucked away in a dusty cabinet, but they are not what makes Illinois, truly, Illinois. Take a closer look now, beyond the bushy beard and sunspotted skin: a sparkle of mischief in the eye, the soothing voice of a storyteller, a collection of laughter lines well beyond his years, and a smile as warm and wide as the equator.

It couldn't be argued. To be with Agent Illinois was to be happy.

It wouldn't be fair to say that life aboard the Mother of Invention was devoid of happiness. It was there, if you knew where to find it. The Director would pace before his ranks of soldiers, point towards the top of the leaderboard and say, _"go on, it's there"_. And sometimes, he was right. But there was another kind, found on lingering touches and a caring embrace, on joyous laughter and nights of friendship and wine. Of this kind, Agent Illinois was a Supplier.

What he did wasn't much, but it was exactly what was needed. A pat on the back after a strenuous training session, a friendly nickname shouted over the din of the mess hall--_"Flowers, you old dog!"_\--, and sometimes, an invitation. Chatter and beer. There were a hundred reasons to refuse it--the Director's disapproving face the morning after, for example--but they were never good enough, and so people got together and drank, all crammed into Illinois' favorite hang-spot, a tiny corner of the ship he'd decorated with half-busted fairy lights and a faded _"Life's a Beach!"_ sign. And yes, a hammock.

Agent York never missed a gathering. He loved a good beer--it was still a mystery how Illinois managed to get such a diverse stash--, but it wasn't the alcohol that brought him back week after week. There was no talk of missions there, no mentions of AI or his latest lockpicking attempts, successful or otherwise. The laughter came as easy as waves, and it wasn't uncommon for the morning clock to find them still in their seats, tired but happy after hours of conversations. Sometimes they'd have Boys' Nights--much to South's displeasure--, and it was incredible how funny Agent Illinois could be. Whoever managed to turn Wyoming's dreary knock-knock jokes into the height of comedy obviously had powers beyond a mere mortal's imagination, and Illinois did it time and time again. York was left in tears after all that fun. Then it was back to the routine, but there was always, thankfully, next time.

Sometimes it wasn't about the laughs at all. Agent Carolina remembers one moment well. She wouldn't have joined if it wasn't for York's insistence--with a big, leaderboard-updating mission ahead of her, she wanted all the rest she could get--, but in the end she found herself at the hangout, getting swept in the feel-good vibes until it was way past midnight, and North had to carry South back to her room before she smashed a bottle on Wyoming's head. Him and Florida had disappeared as well, walking back to their quarters together. York snored softly next to her, the alcohol finally sending him to sleep. Only Illinois and her remained, like survivors after a long fight.

Isn't not clear what it is about late nights and early mornings that make people so vulnerable, so open. That time--those hours where nobody should be awake, yet _here we are_, here and now--, is where some of the most sincere conversations are given way to exist. She doesn't remember how it started, but she recalls how she didn't want it to stop. By the light of the faulty fairy lights, Agent Illinois and her talked and talked, and that's how she heard, for the first time, about the little red boat.

Illinois rocked himself lightly to and fro as he listened, swaying in his tattered hammock like an old sea captain. Their talk had covered countless topics by now, and it had finally arrived on the subject of needs. For Carolina, the answer had been instantaneous: an AI. After all, what else could be first on a Freelancer's mind? But Illinois merely shrugged and shook his head. He didn't need an AI, or a top spot on the leaderboard. Carolina's face stopped somewhere between confusion and delight. What do you want, then?, it tried to say. What else is there for you?

Illinois looked at her from his rocking seat and smiled. He didn't need much, he said, only an island chain that stretched around an entire planet, a shack by the water with a bar full of spiced rum, and a tiny red sailboat.

She would still remember that moment, for years to come. She had not understood back then, sitting in the dim light of that haven of a room, just what those words had truly meant. But then Project Freelancer had crashed and burned, and suddenly her world was lost and shattered. There would be no more AI, no more leaderboards. No more friends.

Agent Carolina had always thought of Illinois as strange. He was not competitive, or ambitious, or anything that a Freelancer ought to be. He was so different from the rest of them, so different from her. But as she lied grasping to life on the snow, alone and afraid for the first time, her mind went back to his words--no, to _Javier's_ words--and finally understood.

_He was just so normal._

-x-

The warmth of a midday sun, the faraway cry of a seagull, and the gentle lapping of waves against the shore.

Carolina walked back down to the coast, her armored footsteps leaving a trail on the scorching sand. The tiny shack by the trees had given her no clues to her old friend's whereabouts. The drinks were there, the memories--oh, how many memories--were there, but of Illinois, no trace seemed to remain. It was almost unfair.

She stopped once she got to the shoreline, the saltwater nearly lapping at her feet. It was a peaceful place, she realized. Just what he had wanted. The approaching sound of crunching sand pulled her out of her reverie, and suddenly Washington was beside her, but he did not speak. He had seen her up in the shack, looking at the pictures her old pal kept around the place. Pictures of another life. He merely stood by her side, his eyes lost somewhere on the horizon, until a glimmer near the bay made him turn and stare.

Carolina followed his gaze, and there she saw it. Floating gently up and down, tethered but still adrift: a tiny red sailboat.

"I wish I had known him better," Washington said, finally breaking their spell. "He seemed like a great guy."

Carolina sighed.

"Yeah, he really was."

**Author's Note:**

> what is canon? my city now
> 
> i've only had agent illinois for a hot, dead minute, but damn if i'm not gonna write a fic for him


End file.
